


Parting Clouds (or: Holidays in Noctilucent)

by Anonymous



Category: Original Work
Genre: Boarding School, First Kiss, Fish out of Water, Friends to Lovers, Literary-Inspired Rescues, M/M, Magic, Mutual Pining, Rescue, Self-Sacrifice, Sharing a Bed, Street Rats
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-13 12:13:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29278269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Peter Bassington-Bassington tells everyone at school that he's spending the holidays in France with his family. He tells his family that he's spending the holidays at school.Meanwhile, for two whole wonderful weeks, he'll be nowhere at all.
Relationships: Original Male Character/Original Male Character, Street Urchin in Fantasy World City/Posh Victorian Schoolboy Who Fell Through a Portal
Kudos: 1
Collections: Five Figure Fanwork Exchange 2020





	Parting Clouds (or: Holidays in Noctilucent)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nununununu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nununununu/gifts).



Peter reread his grandfather’s letter one more time before finishing his own response. His first two attempts had turned out terrible ink-splattered, a visible departure from his usual flawless precision. Peter feared that Grandfather would see the nerves underlying the uncharacteristic sloppiness. So, he was rewriting it all out, carefully this time, double-checking all of the spellings.

This rewrite was one of his last chances to back out of his carefully formulated plan, but rereading Grandfather’s letter merely emboldened him further. It contained its usual diet of lectures, and even more talk than usual about the future that Grandfather had already plotted out for Peter--as staid and predictable and unending as a poorly written serial in one of the lesser penny papers. The bar, the continuation of the family line. A life devoid of interests and adventures. 

Peter’s brooding (and almost his handwriting) was jolted by a knock on the door.

Havers, the slavishly devoted first-year who fagged for Peter stood timidly in the doorway. "Will you need any more tea, Bassington-Bassington?" The kettle hung limply from his right hand, and would have spilled had there remained any water in it.

"No, that will be all for today," Peter replied, smiling indulgently at the earnest little scug. "That’ll be all until next half, in fact. Unless _you_ need any more tea, Blake?" Peter turned to look at his dormitory mate, who was standing arms akimbo next to his bed and scowling down at the enormous pile on it, as though sheer force of will might make it pack itself.

"No, I’m fully satiated," Blake said without looking up. 

"You’re back to Scotland, aren’t you?" Peter asked Havers.

"Yes. On a five o’clock train."

"Well, you’d better scurry off then."

"Thank you, Bassington-Bassington. See you next term," Havers said before vanishing.

"You’re too gentle with him, Squared," Blake scolded Peter once Havers was gone. "Kids like him need to be moulded, not coddled. Knock that owl-eyed choirboy look off him before someone in the big wide world _truly_ knocks him down."

"I wouldn’t worry about Havers. He’s a good kid. He’ll grow out of it. I was just as owl-eyed at his age." 

In stark contrast to his cheetah-like speed when running bases, Blake, in the exercise of packing his bags, moved with the plodding lackadaisicalness of a worker in the last fifteen minutes of his shift. To underscore his maddening lack of urgency, he picked up a single undergarment and folded it into the suitcase.

Blake launched into an analysis of yesterday’s house match and then turned to suggestions for how Peter, as newly appointed Head Boy, could reduce what he called the ‘beastly slack-mindedness of the house’ when they returned from the break. Now that he’d finished his letter, Peter’s quiet impatience grew to hair-pulling levels. He could not leave until Blake was gone. Peter generally liked his roommate (and certainly, he appreciated his discretion with regard to Peter’s regular infractions), but right now, he wished him away. 

"And what about you? What time does your train leave?" Peter asked, in what he hoped sounded like effortless nonchalance.

"It's the six oh-four," Blake replied with nonchalance that came entirely unpretended.

"Shouldn't you be getting on then?" Peter asked, trying very hard to sound calm. "You wouldn't want to miss it."

"There’s plenty of time."

Peter tried again, this time with a more structured plan of attack. He was fairly good at coming up with these, given a good enough motivation. "Jepson told me that the seven oh-four is the one by which all the boys are leaving today," he tried again. "It'll be crowded as can be."

Peter knew there was little Blake liked less than feeling himself pressed against the hoi-polloi. Never mind that his people were only first-generation nobility.

The tactic worked. Blake frowned. "Do you really think so?"

"Yes, _and_ there might be an extra crush," Peter said, laying it on thick. "You usually take the early afternoon train, so you don’t know how it gets. Last time, I didn’t get a seat almost until London itself. Beastly cold, standing there, being thrown this way and that, practically into the laps of strange women."

"Horrors. I say, would you lend me enough for a first-class ticket? I can pay you back straight away when hols are over."

Blake, as Peter knew all too well, had recently thrown away all his pocket money on a deficient fishing rod. It had been the great, dramatic suffering of the term.

"Sorry, old chap. I'm fresh out," Peter said.

"Impossible."

"I’d lend it to you if I could. You know I would. But I'm poor as a church mouse."

"Nonsense. Whatever you may say about your grandfather, he gives you a jolly generous allowance. Everyone knows you've got bags of the stuff. "

"Not today, though. End of term and all. I’ve spent it all." Peter began to question the wisdom of his approach; rather than hastening his packing, Blake had simply begun to ask awkward questions.

"What did you spend it on?" Blake asked suspiciously.

"Presents for my little cousins. The ones I’m to meet in France. You know how it is."

Peter had told enough of these half lies that he could now do it with a straight face. He still hated doing it, though. What he hated most wasn’t even the ease with which he told these whoppers, but, in fact, the knowledge that Blake, just like everyone else, would believe him. Peter had one of those trustworthy faces, everyone had always said. The general opinion, of house masters and aunts alike, was that he oozed respectability, steadiness, and a healthy understanding of the rules.

It was all a bigger lie than any he'd ever told. Peter was guilty, in either act or spirit, of all the greatest crimes of the school. It was some sort of cosmic joke, he thought, that all the adults had convinced himself that he was worthy of first his prefecture, and now of being Head of House. 

"I wish _my_ family took vacations to Deauville," Blake groused. "Swindon is hardly worth looking forward to."

"Don’t be jealous. It'll be an awful bore. It always is."

For the first time, Blake took a closer look at the pile on Peter's bed. "Lord, what an odd assortment of rubbish you are taking. From the looks of things, you’ll spend the time half-naked, like a savage. Is it really all that hot in Deauville? Are there no shops? Do they not dress for dinner?"

Blake waved at the pile of linen shirts, books, and bags of tea that lay strewn on Peter's bed, waiting to be stuffed as efficiently as possible into the extra-large rucksack that Peter had bought the week before. Before he even began packing, Peter needed to insert a lining into the bag; this was something he could not do until Blake had left, not unless he wanted to elicit even more awkward questions. 

"My grandfather’s staff are packing my other clothes from home. But yes, it's practically the Sahara there right now," Peter lied in the authoritative voice that everyone always believed. "Unseasonably warm this year. My aunt wrote to tell me so."

"Well, maybe I'm not so jealous then." Blake, one of nature's moisture-makers, did not do well on hot days.

"I may not be able to lend you enough for a first-class ticket for the seven o’clock, but I have a better idea," Peter said. "I know Mrs Adams usually drives to Maidenhead around now. She loves me. I can ask her to drive you there. Not only will you be able to catch an earlier train, but even better, you can choose a snug little seat for yourself before anyone from school has a chance to board. But you’ll have to hurry."

"You always have the cleverest ideas," Blake said, relieved. Even better, he started to move faster in his packing. "I don't know what I'll do without you, after next term. I don't know what any of them are thinking—letting me out into the world unsupervised."

"It's only Oxford," Peter said. "You'll have three more years before you're fully unleashed."

Grandfather was a Cambridge man, so that was where Peter would be headed in one more term. University was merely a delay before the inevitable slog that the rest of his life promised him. 

But he kept his grumblings inside. Instead, all he said was, "Let me run down and find Mrs Adams for you. Be ready in five!"

He'd needed to go downstairs anyway, to post his letter, which contained what he hoped was a convincing story about how terribly ill he’d fallen in the last couple of days. Nothing he would die of, but certainly dire enough to keep him from traveling abroad. It made the most sense to remain at school for the break, he’d posited before expressing his disappointment and regrets. Grandfather would receive the letter only once he’d arrived in France, too late to make any other arrangements. And, after this initial missive, Peter would be able to blame the slowness of the mails on his lack of response all holiday long. 

With this ruse, Peter could tell everyone at school that he'd been in France with his family, and tell his family that he'd been at school.

Meanwhile, for two whole wonderful weeks, he'd be nowhere at all.

* * *

The sun was close to setting by the time Peter finally escaped the school grounds. Happily, being the end of term, this was the one day when he could simply walk out, instead of having to creep out of his ground floor window after lights out and keep to the shadows and out of sight as he made his way past the school buildings.

The forest adjoining the school had always been off-limits, but Peter had traversed the forest enough times that he knew how to avoid getting caught by Lord Ashbury’s groundskeeper.

It was almost dark by the time he finally reached the ruined chapel. It was a small place, just three crumbled-down walls, really. Peter had no way of knowing how old it might be. But he could tell that it was very old indeed, possibly as old as Christianity was in Britain. So old that bits of whatever had been before the chapel was built were still there, underneath. 

Peter had no idea what importance it had once had, nor why it had been left to ruin. 

It was Langdon who had first brought Peter here, almost a year ago, on what Peter had erroneously, stupidly, devastatingly hoped might prove a more, well, sentimental afternoon. Amongst the dead leaves and damp ivy, Langdon had whispered a legend about a witch who had been burned centuries ago, whose spirit haunted the place until worshippers stopped coming and only small forest rodents felt safe from her lingering fury. 

However, Langdon, Peter later learned the hard way, talked a lot of rot. So, that probably wasn’t it. But given that boys from the school were not supposed to ever have been here, there was no one else he could ask. 

Langdon had merely intended to spook Peter with the owls that lived in the crumbled niches, and to get him alone to gossip about other boys--about one in particular. (And in hindsight, Peter should have guessed why, but he’d been too blinded by hero worship, too romantic of heart, and too delighted to be asked on an illicit expedition by the object of that worship to see that Langdon’s interest in Edmund deVernay was not based solely on the boy’s cricket skills.) 

Langdon had known about the cave, but now about the loose stone leading the ancient Druid cave underneath. Peter had discovered the cave much later, after Langdon had been sacked for writing a damningly incriminating letter, disgusting and conclusive, to Edmund deVernay. Peter had returned here, his romantic heart pulling him to the place where he’d felt closest to his unrequited love. He’d come to blub in peace over his broken heart. He’d been busy making the ink on his own letter--just as incriminating, but never sent--run, when his foot had hit the stone and revealed the space behind. 

Tonight, Peter fished out matches from his pocket and felt around in the niche where he kept a spare torch. Once lit, it was the work of only a moment to find the loose stone that marked the passageway. It had grown looser from repeated use. He'd never tried to squeeze through with luggage before. It took some doing, but soon he was through, pulling the stone back into place behind him. 

Before the torch snuffed itself out in this damp, almost airless hole, he adjusted the ancient device, which looked like a sort of Druid sundial, except ever so much more intricate, and, obviously, not dependent on the sun (or, at least, not the sun that shone over England). So, not like a sundial at all, really. He set it to what he was pretty sure amounted to fourteen days. This was by far the longest and most complicated setting he had ever made on it, but he’d worked the sums out over a week ago. All of his trips so far had only been for a few hours; the first couple of times, before he’d figured out the workings of the non-sundial, he’d been lucky to get back before breakfast. 

As soon as he clicked the final piece into place, Peter felt the familiar wind begin to blow at his back--a gale that, according to physics, should not have existed in a cramped and airless little hole. It forcefully pushed him both forwards into a craggy stone wall that his face never hit, and also downwards onto his stomach. Peter gripped his luggage tightly against his body and took a deep breath, because he knew he might not be able to inhale, not right away. 

The sounds of the crickets that lived in the chapel ruin died away immediately, literally drowned out by the water in which he was submerged. When he stood up enough to lift his head and gasp for air, the haphazard sounds of a city had been switched on. A baby's high-pitched scream from the left, the rhythmic clank of boots to the right.

 _Boots._

Driven by the fear that had been instilled in him of the Watch, Peter scrambled out of the fountain. He threw himself under a nearby cart that had been cleared of fruit and abandoned for the night. And not a moment too soon. From where he lay on his stomach, dripping wet and with small rocks poking him in the ribs, he watched the gilded boots of the Watch marching in two rows of three. He watched them until they'd turned a corner. Only when he could no longer hear them did he emerge and begin to take stock of where he was.

He was at the edge of the Vratesi fountain, of course. The question was _where_ along its edge. He’d learned to identify a few of the statues, in order to get his bearings. Tonight, beside him, he recognized the sculpture carved to resemble the Temple of Arachlos, which he knew meant he’d come out on the southern end.

The fountain was enormous, as big as the Serpentine in Hyde Park, and even more misshapen, with fingers jutting off everywhere. However, unlike the Serpentine, it was practically lousy with statues, of all kinds. Statues both in the water, as well as along the edges. Abstract statues, frighteningly lifelike statues, statues of historical figures, statues of mythological creatures, statues that towered over people, statues so small that you might explore the fountain a hundred times and always find a new one. And that is what people did; the fountain was always so crowded with waders that people almost never noticed Peter’s sudden arrival.

Although the passage always sent him to the fountain, the magic, or whatever drove it, lacked consistency in terms of the exact spot. The first time Peter had come here, he'd found himself half-drowning, knees over head, not sure which way was up. He would have drowned, embarrassingly in four feet of water, had it not been for a lucky rescue--an arm to grab onto in the water, a lifeline. Another time, he'd emerged in the open palm of the central figure: in the hand of Ars Vratesi himself. 

Luckily, the return did not involve water. Peter would simply feel the wind at his back when the set time ran out. It would push him through an invisible door and back into the cave. He tried to make sure to find himself somewhere empty as the hour approached, so as to avoid leaving an awkward situation behind him. 

Peter had never seen this city in the daytime, being only able to escape from school under cover of night and Blake's deep-sleeping snores. However, he'd learned it well enough to triangulate his position based on certain landmarks, and make his way from there to the top of the famous Laurel Steps. From there, he could begin following the directions he’d memorized to get to his destination.

He got a few curious stares--he always did, both for his odd looks as well as for his odd clothes--but most people were too busy trying to either get home or get to their favorite watering hole before sundown to pay him much mind. Noctilucent was like London in that way, a city so big that you anyone could become invisible. 

He had not expected to be met on the way, but he still felt lit up with happiness when he heard his name.

"Peter, over here," a well-loved voice whispered.

The same hand that had pulled him out of the water that first night now pulled him again, this time into a doorway, and into an embrace that left him more breathless than half-drowning in the fountain had.

"Hullo, Alexios," Peter said, hoping that he wasn’t holding on too long. He didn’t have much of a gauge for it. Alexios was always generous with his hugs, but other than him, no one had hugged Peter since his parents had died in the carriage accident, so long ago by now that Peter couldn’t quite remember ever having been held by them.

"I thought we agreed that I would meet you at your lodging" Peter said.

"I know, but circumstances changed. I ended up moving, so the address I gave you was no longer correct." He felt Peter's rucksack, and lifted it as a test. "What's all this? You said two weeks, not a lifetime. Unless…"

Peter wanted to hear the hopefulness in Alexios's voice, but more likely, he was irritated that Peter had made the journey more difficult by bringing something so heavy.

"This is how much I pack for two weeks."

"I see." Alexios’s amused chuckle swallowed any confirmation Peter had looked for in his voice. "Sometimes I forget what a little lord you are. Hopefully the contents weren’t ruined by the fountain."

"I lined the inside of the bag to prevent water damage."

"Why am I not surprised?" 

That was the last they spoke for some time, for they could hear another troop of the Watch marching down the boulevard that ran parallel to this street. Instinctively, they retreated into the long shadow of a nearby building, and from there, into a doorway to wait until the coast was clear.

(For all that he was the grandson of an earl, Peter’s experience sneaking out of the dormitory had left him just as good at this sort of evasion as Alexios, who had grown up on the streets.)

Alexios shouldered the rucksack, pressing a hand over Peter's mouth to silence him when he tried to protest. It was the nearness of him, the shocking pressure of Alexios's body against his back, warming him, that worked to hush Peter better than any remonstrance. Peter counted along with the rhythm as a way of keeping himself under control, as a distraction from the almost painful awareness of Alexios touching him.

"I had another close call this week, with the ones who are out for my blood," Alexios whispered as they waited for the sound of the boots to fade away. "The entered the tavern I was dining in with my friend Remus… You met Remus, didn’t you? It would have been early on in our career."

"I think so. The one with the hair… you know, hair like a sundae." Peter didn’t know how to describe it, but the one of Alexios’s friends that he thought went with that name had left quite an impression on him. He was almost certain that his awkward foreignness had made an equal impression on Remus. 

"I still don’t quite understand what that is, but yes, he has memorable hair. Anyway, they spotted me. I think they were off-hours, but that wouldn’t have stopped them. One of caught sight of me and began to give chase. So, I ran into that tavern I took you to once, the one with the sign of the raindrop. I escaped through an exit under the bar and through the cellar that I’m not sure even the owners are aware of. It was a very close call. Remus says they’ve come back every night. But that simply goes to show what idiots they are. As though I went in there for any reason other than to escape them. As though I would return to a place where I was almost caught."

"Yes," Peter said slowly, structuring the problem and thinking it through. "It would be stupid now, but I would wager that in a month or so, once they have figured out that you know not to return, they will never again expect to find you there. It might become the safest place for you in the city. And the food was pretty good, if I remember correctly. You might want to make it a default choice."

Alexios nodded to himself as he thought this over. "Yes, I do think you might be right. Clever. Very clever."

Peter warmed at the compliment, but the story had left him worried.

The natural enmity between youths and enforcers had reached an all-time high. The Watch had become more aggressive as of late, and, as they nurtured a particular vendetta against Alexios, dating back to a wild rag dreamed up by one of the fast-dwindling group of orphans that he ran with. They had made off with all of their helmets in what sounded like the sort of masterful swoop that would have lived on in eternal legend at Wrykyn. Alexios was the only one of the propagators remaining in the city, and also the one who had dreamed up and executed that particular part of the rag, so all of their mortification and fury had latched onto him, growing and growing until a decent percentage of the force had made him one of the most sought-after ‘criminals’ in the city. 

Peter had spent no small portion of his visits to Noctilucent keeping one eye on Alexios, and another eye looking out for the Watch. Many were the times when they’d had to make a run for it. Luckily, Peter’s athletic skills, which had vaulted him to the school eleven, were sufficient to allow him to keep up with the deceptively strong, and impressively swift exertions of Alexios’s acrobatic body.

"I think they’ve gone," Alexios said after a couple of minutes.

Even though the night was as warm as it always was, Peter felt sadly cool when they were no longer pressed against one another. But Alexios had already emerged from the shadow, swinging his free arm and whistling one of the eerie tunes that were popular in this place. 

"I can carry my own bag," Peter said, trying to wrest the strap from Alexios’s long fingers. 

"Not on your life," Alexios scolded before dipping into a mock bow. "You are my guest, coming to stay at my not-so humble abode. A good host carries his guest’s luggage."

"If you say so. Thanks, by the way."

"Finally, he displays some manners." Alexios winked at him. Finally relaxing into their walk, he said, "So, tell me. What news do you have for me since last you were able to get away? What happened with that… The children who were cheating in the exams to determine who could speak the useless, dead language most fluently?" 

Alexios always loved hearing about--and sometimes laughing at--Peter’s studies. He seemed genuinely fascinated by some of the mathematics lessons, and had begged for a copy of their most recent English history text; however, other subjects, such as Latin and Greek struck him as ludicrously unnecessary. 

The last time he was here, Peter had told him all about the fourth form boys that he suspected of having come up with a system by which only one in five did work each week. They’d passed the assignments around so that the others could slack off until it was his turn. Alexios had first laughed and said he wished he could meet these children, and then had helped Peter come up with an elaborate plan to prove their guilt without a doubt. Peter now told him how he had enacted the plan the very next day, and it had gone off without a hitch. 

"Thanks, by the way," he finished. "It was genius."

"It was nothing. It was fun. I only wish they did not have to be punished. For I assume they _were_ punished, yes?"

"I hated having to do it, but yes. I gave them all five."

Alexios looked confused. "Five what?"

"Why, five lashes." Peter mimed the motion, miming the motion of pulling down trousers and directing an imaginary stick to his own bottom.

Alexios stopped short as they crossed a little bridge over a canal between two streets. He gaped at Peter in shock. "You make one another strip and then spank one another?" 

"It is the usual punishment."

"How did I not catch wind of this practice before?" 

"Probably because it hasn’t come up. I don’t like having to punish the other boys. I never asked to be prefect, you know." 

But Alexios seemed less interested in Peter’s perspective than in the practice itself. He licked his lips and asked next, more haltingly than was his wont, "What do you use for the implement?"

"A cane, usually. Sometimes a racquet. Sometimes… oh, whatever is handy. It’s meant to humiliate more than hurt. Though it does hurt, too, if you do it hard enough."

"Gods," Alexios breathed. "And did you, um, did you do it hard enough this time?"

"Only to the ringleader. He was the only one who deserved it." 

Peter watched the long line of Alexios’s throat clench as he swallowed hard. He turned his whole body slightly away, looking over at the vista to the left. 

"You know, people pay to have that done, and here you are…" Alexios seemed to be mumbling.

"I can’t hear you. What did you say?"

Alexios shook his head and slung the bag around so that it rested against his right side, in between him and Peter. "Nothing. It’s nothing." 

Peter felt that something had gone amiss and he’d lost track of the conversation. He welcomed it when Alexios changed the subject and began filling _him_ in on his latest adventures in haphazard employment. Recently, he’d become a messenger for all sorts of dodgy merchants looking to do deals not sanctioned by the guilds, which seemed a thousand times stricter here than any similar group Peter had read about during Medieval history.

Alexios told the stories so thrillingly that Peter only noticed how long they’d been walking when he noticed that the shape of the street signs had changed from circles to diamonds, signaling that they’d crossed into a different ring of the city. 

"It’s just back here," Alexios said. "But you have to go quietly." 

They slipped through the back servant’s gate of a stately townhouse. Alexios must have left it unlocked, because it swung open just enough to let the two boys through. All lights had been extinguished inside, so that if you did not know there was a door there to open, you would not have guessed anything was open. 

Alexios covered Peter’s mouth again--touching, always touch and so tactile--as he listened for any signs of life. When he was satisfied that they were alone, he relaxed and slung the heavy sack off his shoulder and onto the ground. 

"Are you the only one staying here?" Peter asked while Alexios lit the world’s smallest torch, not even nearly enough to see anything by. He had never been to any of Alexios’s lodgings, but he knew that Alexios usually squatted in empty houses in the company of other youths, their age or younger. He hadn’t met almost any of Alexios’s apparently vast acquaintance, but he’d been looking forward to it. 

"Yes. The last place was all right, but some of the other people staying there weren’t being as careful as they should have been. It was only a matter of time before someone noticed a bunch of homeless youths were putting themselves up in there, and called the Watch. So, I cleared out and found this place, just for you and me." He gave what must have been a dazzling smile, but in the semi-darkness, Peter only saw the barest flash of teeth.

"Where are the real occupants?"

"They’re a big player in the fabric trade. And it’s as though they save all their most garish wares for the servants' quarters. You’ll see tomorrow. Anyway, from what I’ve been able to sleuth out, the whole family has decamped to the country for a wedding. They shouldn’t be back until after you’ve gone."

"I see," Peter said in the dark.

He must not have sounded very impressed, because Alexios quickly said, "It’s a very grand house. You’ll be able to see better in the morning. I spent a lot of time looking, you know. I wanted only the best for you."

"The best house that money doesn’t actually have to buy?" Peter teased.

"Something like that." Alexios sighed, but before Peter could reassure him that he’d only been joking, he placed his big, bony hand at the small of his back and pushed him up, up and around the spiral stairs to the top floor. He led them through the second door on the narrow hallway. The moonlight, brighter but also infinitely more purple than that of Peter’s world, revealed a small room. 

"Where are we?" Peter asked.

"Servants’ quarters. I’m sorry we can’t stay in the family’s suites downstairs, but it’s safer this way. The neighbors are less likely to notice candles or motion this far up."

"I’ve never been in any house here at all. I’m hardly going to complain. It’s already a sight better than what I’ve got at school." 

He was about to launch into a hundred questions when Alexios yawned dramatically. His entire posture, hitherto so straight and alert, slumped as though he’d released some long-held tension.

"Gods, I’m tired. I was so worried you’d be later than this. I’m not sure I’d have been able to remain sharp for much longer. But you came earlier than I’d expected, which means we can go straight to sleep. I don't know if there's room for this in here," Alexios said as he slung the rucksack from his shoulder down to the floor. "Will you mind if we keep it in the hallway?"

"All right," Peter automatically replied, even though it wasn’t. He'd been looking forward to tonight for ages, looking forward to showing Alexios all the thoughtful items of interest he'd brought. He'd been looking forward to a long chat that stretched through the night, to watching the stars twinkle in the ever-cloudless sky. 

But it was too late to revise his agreement; Alexios had already gone and returned, now empty-handed from the other room.

"I just remembered, my pajamas were in there," Peter said. "I should…"

"Your what?"

"My sleeping clothes," Peter said, realizing that, since they’d always stayed up and out all night before, Peter knew nothing about this world’s culture around sleeping. "Silk shirt and trousers."

Alexios chuckled. "What a fussy people you come from. You even have special sleeping clothes. Instead of lighting another candle just to get these sleep clothes out, would you mind awfully if I gave you one of my tunics instead? Just for tonight. Or, perhaps, you can throw off a little of your over-clothed modesty and sleep as I do, no need for clothes at all. It's a warm night. You might like it."

"Are we meant to share this room, or shall I…" Peter glanced at the bed, wide enough for two, but only barely. The idea of such temptation, so near, of Alexios naked beside him… Peter’s knees gave out and he sat down hard in the nearest metal chair. 

"It’s safer if we share," Alexios said practically, not noticing Peter’s agitation at all. "In case of the residents’ surprise return, we’ll be better able to pack up quickly and go. I picked this bedroom because of the easy escape route down the drainpipe that runs below the balcony."

"I'll take your extra tunic, thank you."

"As you like," Alexios said. He began feeling the two tunics drying by the window. He tossed the one deemed the driest over Peter, who then turned to the wall and slowly began unbuttoning his shirt. 

There was a beat, and then behind him, he heard Alexios sigh, in what Peter guessed was irritation. "I suppose I shall keep my trousers on, even if it means I have to sweat all night. I wouldn’t want to offend your sensibilities. We will each have one half of a wardrobe." 

Peter choked back a laugh instead of begging Alexios to go bare, as a guilty part of him desperately wanted. "Perhaps you’ll find you prefer it."

"I doubt it, but everything’s worth trying once." 

All of this felt strange to Peter. Alexios's tired, defeated manner, his hurry to end the evening. Peter had ensured many full nights of sleep before coming, as he always did when preparing for a visit here. But tonight, he felt as though he were being sent to bed as summarily as he sent the younger boys in Adams House to bed. This was the first time Peter had been able to come for more than a night, but Alexios didn't seem nearly as excited about it as he was. 

Peter had gotten Alexios into the habit of brushing his teeth, and had left him a toothbrush and tin of dentifrice a few visits ago. They brushed and spat in silence, with only a little moonlight shining through the slats of the shutters to direct them. Then Peter pretended not to watch Alexios’s shadow undress, until he was clad in nothing but loose linen breeches. The thin fabric left very little to the imagination. Long, compact muscles stretched over a lanky, well-proportioned frame, and a soft bulge where... 

Peter quickly looked up at his face. Alexios pulled at the twig that mysteriously managed to keep his hair in that picturesquely messy bun. It all tumbled down in waves to settle about his shoulders.

Alexios only had an inch of both height and breadth on Peter, and Mrs Adams had always liked to call him Peter the handsomest of her charges. But tonight, looking at the defined planes of Alexios's back, and with the spare tunic hanging a little too long on his thighs, Peter felt short and skinny and ugly. He thought, with a pang, of Edmund deVernay, who looked like an illustration off a greeting card, and whom, of course, the almost equally handsome Langdon had wanted. Perhaps it was stupid of Peter to keep developing these unfortunate--not to mention illegal--attachments to boys so far beyond his reach. He knew all too well, although Grandfather disagreed, that being heir to an earldom did not guarantee you all that you wanted in life.

"Come quickly, so that I may snuff the candle," Alexios said, getting into the bed and squeezing himself as close to the wall as he could, in order to make room for Peter. Then he said again, "Gods, I'm tired."

Peter blew out the soft candle-light he had come to associate with this world that he had only ever seen between dusk and dawn.

In the dark, Peter frowned, but then he felt Alexios's hand seek his in the dark and clasp it tight.

"You've no idea how much I've been looking forward to this," Alexios said. "There are so many things I want to show you. I hope it wasn't too difficult to manage the time." He sounded so very tired, and a little bit sad, but genuine.

It was all Peter needed to hear to cheer up, to feel that his excitement, at least, was requited. "No, it was easy," he said, pretending away the toll all the lies had taken on him. "I’ve thought of nothing else for weeks." 

With the tactile affection that had always come so easily to him, Alexios gave Peter's hand one last squeeze before rolling over onto his belly and cradling his head between his folded arms, ceding the horrible, lumpy excuse for a pillow to Peter. 

Peter wondered what the pillow was made of. He didn’t know if the birds of this city went to bed before he usually arrived, or if there were no birds at all. He thrilled at the opportunity to finally find out the answer to this, and a thousand other questions, starting tomorrow. 

And, after a difficult exams week, it turned out that he was almost as tired as Alexios. Not even the agitated longing that the closeness of their sleeping arrangement had aroused in him could keep him from dropping off to sleep shortly after his friend.

* * *

At some point in the night, Peter woke up, throbbing, from a guilty dream about the rowing team at school. He'd gotten locked in the baths with them after a practice, and there was absolutely nowhere he could safely look without them. Collins and Raysworth and Hastings had kept _touching_ him, all through the dream, silly little glancing brushes of elbow against skin or knees against shin, or toes tickling his feet. It became maddeningly too much, so overwhelmingly stimulating that he'd aroused himself right into wakefulness. 

At first, he'd found himself confused about where he was, and why the windows were open, why he was covered only with a thin sheet, why he didn't have any pajamas on, and why he wasn't cold despite all that. He'd woken up with Alexios's elbow brushing against his stomach, and Alexios's big toe slightly stroking his ankle and, most alarmingly, Alexios's arm thrown over Peter's back. Alexios seemed to have snuggled right under Peter's armpit.

Well, that explained the dream, then. 

Peter had woken up hard and panting countless times, but he'd never quite woken up like this. Never with the object of his longing so tantalizingly close. Never with the object actually hard himself. Because that was what it had to be, the hard length he could feel pressing into his side. 

Nothing like this could ever happen at school, with its narrow beds and coffin-like barriers between bunks that prevented boys from ever getting too close and doing exactly this, except more. He counted to fifty and willed himself to calm down again. His last thought before he fell asleep again was that at least Alexios did not seem to be a snorer, which was a step up from Blake. 

When he woke again, he found himself alone, not just in the bed, but in the room. He understood the precariousness of Alexios's lodging arrangements enough not to shout his name. So, instead, he sat up and enjoyed his first glimpse of daytime in this strange world. 

Without the purple moonlight that had lent everything a strange hue, and also without the equally distorting yellow glow of candlelight, Peter could finally get a real sense of the true color of things here. And what he saw was all quite garish. 

He saw now what Alexios had meant about the owners of this house using all of the rejected fabrics from their business in their home. Every possible surface had been upholstered in a terrifyingly riotous pattern—including things like shutters and chair legs that, back home, would have been left as plain wood. He had to look up at the ceiling to keep from getting a headache. 

He crawled out of the low-slung bed and over to the window. Peering through the slats of the shutters, he finally saw what the city really looked like. The first thing he noticed was that a love of bright colors was not limited to this house's family. The windows of every house as far as the eye could see were covered in window boxes full of brightly-colored tropical flowers. The buildings themselves looked a little bit like the style of the Doge's palace he'd visited in Venice on his last family holiday, and a little bit like the style of the shabby cottage Grandfather had given their poor relation, cousin Susan, to live in after her husband had died. Which is to say, the buildings didn't look much like either of those things, or like any Peter had ever seen. 

But it was beautiful. More beautiful than anywhere Peter had ever visited, and five thousand times more interesting. He had never experienced such a _bright_ day, with such clear, dry air, and such piercing sunlight. He had thought the nights warm, but that was nothing compared with the heat from the sun, so much hotter than in England, or even in Italy. 

Peter was still taking in the view when he heard light steps coming up the staircase. His first instinct was to hide, but there was no time, and not even a wardrobe to slip into, so he just stood there, like an idiot. Thankfully, it was only Alexios. He pushed the door open with his foot, and entered carrying a cheesecloth bag between his teeth and holding a steaming ceramic mug in each hand. He stopped mid-stride when he spotted Peter by the window, and the bag fell to the floor when he opened his mouth in surprise.

"Oh, you’re awake," he said, sounding disappointed.

"Should I not be?" 

"It’s fine. I merely hoped to return before you woke and surprise you with breakfast." 

The conversation fizzled after that as they stared at one another. His first glimpse of the city by sunlight had dazzled him, but the city was nothing compared with seeing Alexios for what felt like the first time—the first _real_ time. 

The first time they'd met, Peter had thought he was dreaming, or hallucinating, because Alexios had looked so much like the beautiful Cypriot boy Peter had always guiltily imagined during Ancient Greek. Wavy dark hair, glittering eyes, a tanned complexion, a textbook aquiline nose. But now he saw that he was so much better than anything Peter's limited imagination could ever have conjured. His hair wasn't all that dark, after all. More of a sandy brown, framing a face that was more golden than simply tanned. He looked as though he'd been lit from within by the sun instead of simply kissed by it. His eyes were practically amber, creating a somewhat monochromatic look (especially when surrounded by the hideous patterns of this room) broken by the plushest, pinkest, most kissable cupid's bow of a mouth Peter had ever seen. He had to tear his eyes away from it, but looking down didn't help much either, not now when he could fully appreciate the strong lines of Alexios's athletic build, see the knuckles of the beautiful hands that he had admired even in the half-light of his previous visits. 

He could feel the weight of Alexios's gaze on him, too, but doubted that he was making half such an impression, with his gangly limbs, moonlike paleness, and unruly red hair. He'd never thought much about his looks before, but right now he wished that he were a bit more memorable. A bit more worthy of standing beside such a beautiful boy, much less of daring to want him.

From one impossible infatuation to another. Peter wished he could stop.

Alexios coughed and seemed to have finally remembered what he'd been doing. He set the cups on the little table in the corner of the room and bent, with uncharacteristic awkwardness, down to pick up the bag he'd dropped. 

"I brought you breakfast," he said. 

"Is that what this is? Um, what is it exactly?"

"Hot spiced nectar, with cream, which is my favorite, and a great treat, only available for three weeks out of the year. You're lucky to have come now. And this is a greased roll, specialty of the butcher down the street. He's one of the best in the city."

It all sounded disgusting to Peter, but so did most of the food that Alexios had had the poor judgement to describe to him before feeding him on previous visits. 

Peter sat down on the single chair, keenly aware of Alexios's rapt attention and hope that he would enjoy the food. He took a bite. 

"Do you like it?" Alexios asked before Peter had fully bit down on it.

Peter nodded and hummed approvingly while trying not to choke on the hard bun. He quickly sipped the nectar.

"Lovely," he managed to say, even though it was so spicy that his tongue felt as though it had caught fire. But the pain was worth it for the beaming smile that spread Alexios's gorgeous mouth wide, and for the way he glowed even brighter. 

"What shall we do today?" Peter asked once he'd forced down every bite. "You know I'm game for anything."

"I hate to do this to you," Alexios began, causing Peter's heart to momentarily fall. 

"What is it?" 

"I have an entire itinerary planned for us, for each day of your visit. However, something happened yesterday that has thrown the entire thing off, right at the start."

"What is it?"

"Someone I know died a couple of days ago. The funeral is today. I'd like to go and pay my respects, if that's all right."

"Of course, that's all right. I'm very sorry to hear it. Who was it?"

"A man named Estreavor. He worked at a tannery in the lower city, near a place I squatted for a while, years ago. He grew fond of me, and kept me in shoes for ages, never asking for money. Speaking of which, he finished these just a few days before he passed..."

Alexios dove into a corner and rummaged around for a minute before pulling out a pair of brand-new dark leather sandals. "Now you won't stick out so terribly. Though I doubt there's much we can do about your hair. I had no idea it was such a color." 

Peter frowned as he tried on the sandals. "I know. It's terribly ugly. They'd call me the red-headed step-child if I weren't, you know, the first-born and not a step-child at all."

"What are you talking about? It's lovely. I've never met anyone with such a shade. It, um, it suits you."

Peter was glad that he'd had his head bowed to lace up the sandals, because he could feel his face heating up and turning a color to match his hair. He pretended to struggle with the laces until he had calmed down again. 

"Do they fit?" Alexios asked when Peter had finally finished. 

Peter stood up and walked around as a test. "It seems like it. I have no idea how you estimated so closely."

"I can be very observant, when I want to be." 

"Thank you, by the way. It's a lovely gift." 

Alexios waved in refusal of the thanks. "It cost me nothing. Estreavor made them for free, just for me. He did tease me about it, though. Asked who my big-footed friend might be."

"It's horrible that he's gone. I would have liked to thank him myself, too. How did he die?"

"He slipped and fell into one of the vats at the tannery."

"Gosh, that's awful!"

"It's dangerous work. He knew that going in."

"Where is the funeral?" Peter realized that, in addition to breakfast, this would be a new cultural experience for him.

"At the shore, of course." Alexios tilted his head and looked at Peter, questioning. "Where do you hold yours, where you come from?"

"Oh, there are spots everywhere."

"Do the tides flow outwards from all of them?"

"I don't understand what that has to do with anything," Peter said. This happened sometimes between them, misunderstandings so vast they had trouble knowing where to start excavating the mismatched assumptions at the heart of the matter. Sometimes, when there was nothing else to do, they tried to figure it out, like a guessing game. At other times, like now, they silently and mutually agreed not to bother. Sometimes, like now, they knew it would eventually become clear. 

"The place we need to get to is on the far side of the city, on the coast. It's quite a walk. It’ll take the rest of the morning to walk over there, if you're up to it."

"You know I'm happy to do whatever you are doing, always. And I'll enjoy the walk. We had exams last week, so I've been sitting and studying almost without a break. Plus, it's a way to see the city."

"Yes, I was hoping to take the opportunity to give you an introductory tour of some new districts." Alexios smiled softly. "Thanks again, by the way. For coming. Something tells me you weren't being quite truthful last night when I asked if it had been difficult to get away."

Peter bit his lip. He shouldn't have tried to lie to Alexios. For a new friend that he didn't see all the time, Alexios managed to see through Peter's lies in a way almost no one else ever did. Perhaps because he was not blinded by Peter's title or family name, or even his position in the school, it was as though Alexios truly saw _Peter_ , as he was beneath all the trappings. 

And the miracle of the thing—even more than the miracle of being here at all—was that Alexios liked Peter even despite all that. 

"The escape itself was easy. Easier than usual, since there was no sneaking out involved. The trouble will only fall upon me when I return, if by some chance my grandfather discovers that I was not at school."

"I want you to tell me all about it on the way. You know I love hearing about your schemes."

"As you like."

Alexios glanced down at Peter's mostly bare legs again, and bit his lip. "You can wear my clothes while you're here. I got an extra set. As soon as you're dressed, we can go."

Peter was no stranger to disrobing in front of his friends, not after years of communal baths, but his discomfort must have been palpable today, because Alexios ended up turning around and making much of tying his hair up while Peter dressed. Today, he used a bright blue ribbon to create a ponytail. With his hair up like this, his angled cheekbones were shown off to even greater effect. 

Peter wished the breeches here had more layers.

* * *

As promised, their walk took them through the center of the city, past the fountain at its heart, and into districts that Peter had never before visited. Given the time constraints on all of his previous visits, the boys had tended to stay in the center of town, visiting the night cafes in the shopping districts that surrounded the fountain. 

Peter spent the first part of the walk telling Alexios not just about how he’d orchestrated his two-week absence, but also on some of the developments that had transpired since his last visit three weeks ago. Similarly, there were some stories that he wanted an update on from Alexios's side. They talked excitedly, Alexios using his hands as much as his voice to keep Peter enthralled and entertained. They also kept interrupting each other, punctuating their storytelling and questions, to point out interesting things they passed—either because Peter had a question or because Alexios had long burned to show it to him. 

"Oh," Peter said when he remembered another notable event that had happened. "They've made me head boy, starting next term."

Alexios pulled at face that made it clear he couldn't even begin to guess that that meant, so Peter explained as best he could. 

When he was done, Alexios fell quiet for a minute, his intelligent face scrunched up as he made sense of the information. "All this time, I knew you were something called a prefect, but I see now that I didn’t fully understand what it meant. So, it seems that a prefect is a snitch. And you’re what… you're lead snitch now?"

Peter had never seen such a disapproving, _disappointed_ scowl on Alexios's face before. 

"It's not like that. Not exactly. If I do the job correctly, there shouldn’t be anything to snitch about, because the boys won't even want to commit any crimes worth reporting." 

"And what crimes would those be?"

"Theft, for certain, as that is one of the worst traits of a character."

"Agreed."

"And then there's sneaking out of doors at night. It's among the very worst things one can do, with the harshest punishments. The other boys would still respect you, but it _is_ a stain, one that adults would have a hard time forgiving." 

"But don't you do that every time you come here?"

"Yes, but… The risk is worth it for this—for a whole world that no one else knows about. And to see you, of course." 

That must have been the right answer, because Alexios gave another one of his heart-stopping smiles. Honestly, Peter thought, he ought to give some sort of warning beforehand. 

"And what else?" Alexios asked next. 

"There's…" Peter gulped. "Nothing. That's all."

"Another lie. There _is_ something else, something even bigger than sneaking out, I would wager."

"Well, there's filthiness. Being filthy," he whispered.

"But you've told me about the baths you all take together, which…" He cleared his throat. "Surely there is no reason for anyone to be filthy, with such access to facilities?"

"Oh, not that kind of filth. It's, you know. Doing impure things. Wanting impure things." When Alexios gave him another blank look, Peter sighed and tried again even though he could feel the tips of his ears turning fiery red. "With other boys, I mean. Touching. Um. Things like that."

"You mean fucking? You're telling me that fucking is a grand felony in your place?"

"Gosh!" Peter exclaimed like a little kid. He had heard language like that before, of course, but never from his friends, and certainly not about this. In fact, this was, by far, the most direct conversation he'd ever had on the subject. 

He desperately wished it were not happening. He cast about wildly in search of a different topic. 

Pointing to the left, he exclaimed, "What an interesting old building? Do you know anything of its history?" 

But Alexios wouldn't be deterred. And now, goodness, his strong hands had clenched Peter by each wrist and spun him around to face him. They stopped walking. Alexios's gaze was so serious as to be inescapable. Peter felt horribly exposed under that warm, honey-colored intensity. 

"Is that what you think? That relations between boys are a sign of moral dirtiness?" 

"I don't… No? Alexios, shouldn't we be getting on? Won't we be late for the funeral?"

"You don't know, or 'no'?"

"I don't… It's considered a great sin. A stain on your soul, whereas getting caught for sneaking out at night is merely a stain on your record. But only with boys. With girls, if you're married, then… Then that's okay."

"I take it that you have never done it."

Peter kept his mouth shut and shook his head, hoping that Alexios would stop there, that he wouldn't ask the real question, which was whether Peter had ever _wanted_ to. Because Peter wouldn't have been able to lie. He was almost never able to lie to Alexios, and certainly not when Alexios was paying the kind of attention he was right now. 

"And is that what you think of those who have done it?" Alexios asked next. "That they are dirty?"

Peter thought of Langdon. The feelings had faded (or rather, been transferred elsewhere), but, even now, after everything, he still thought of him as a wonderful boy. Not stained at all.

He shook his head. 

That seemed to satisfy Alexios. He let go of Peter's hands and began walking again. 

"So, Head Boy is a sort of enforcer," he said, returning to the previous subject. "Each new aspect I learn about your slave camp is stranger and more disturbing than the last."

Peter forced himself to laugh, as a way to shake off the tension of a moment ago. "What are you talking about? It isn’t a slave camp. It’s a _school_."

"They wake you up at ungodly hours and make you run around in the cold drizzle for no reason. They force you to walk in lines wherever you go. The adults are called ‘masters’, and they patrol your sorry sleeping quarters every night. There are naked beatings and low-level tortures for the naughty. They elevate certain slaves--like you--to a rank that is meant to keep the other slaves in line. We haven’t had slavery here in a thousand years, but from the stories I’ve heard, it sounded rather like what you describe of your 'school'."

Peter had never thought about it quite like that, with such a focus on only the worst elements of the experience, and none of the best. He could sort of see how Alexios had come to such an idea, if he squinted a bit with his mind. 

"It really isn't anything like slavery, though. In fact, parents pay quite a lot of money for their sons to have the privilege of attending."

"The other boys have parents? I had thought they were all orphans, like you."

"No, not at all. And I suppose I _am_ technically an orphan, not having a mother or father living, but I do have plenty of family. I mean, I've told you all about my grandfather."

"Yes, but he does not seem overfond of you. Hence why I suppose it made sense that he had shipped you off to the slave camp."

"But I've also told you that I am to inherit his title one day! I'm a lord, one of the highest and wealthiest in the kingdom!" Peter cringed as he heard his own words. No one with good manners would ever talk about himself that way, with so little modesty. But he could not think of a better way to make Alexios understand. And anyway, he was not at home, which was the point. Perhaps the rules were different here, and such a speech would not be considered shocking. Perhaps… perhaps all the rules were different, he now began to wonder. 

"I see," and from the soft tone and the way he tilted Peter and looked at him as though seeing him for the first time, it seemed that Alexios really _did_ see. 

Peter hated it immediately. "Don't look at me like that. It's just the same old me. I shouldn't have said anything. It doesn't mean anything."

"It does mean something. And I am glad to know it, to understand better who you are. So, yes, it does mean something, but that doesn't mean it means something _to me_. For example, it doesn't mean that I will tease you any the less. If anything, I will tease you ten times more. Little princes like you need the stuffing knocked out of them from time to time to keep them from getting too soft."

"You sound like my roommate. That's what he says about Havers, my fag."

"Your 'fag', whose job it is to wait upon you hand and foot, for no pay. Now do you see why I was confused!"

Peter laughed. "I do now. I really do."

The tips of sails in the distance were a sign that they were finally nearing the coast. The crush of people grew, in stark contrast to the relatively quiet, tree-lined neighborhood they had just passed through. There were carts and wheelbarrows everywhere he looked. 

"Alexios!" said a deep voice behind them.

They turned to see a stocky youth a couple of years younger than themselves shouldering his way towards them. His round, friendly face shone with sweat. He had a similar dark-gold coloring as Alexios, but slightly redder, rusted-copper hair. He wore a bright red cloak, a color Peter now realized he had not yet seen anyone else wearing.

"Bartoz!" Alexios accepted a brief embrace and an odd rubbing on the top of his head that Peter assumed was meant as a fond, friendly greeting.

From over the top of Alexios's head, Bartoz looked at Peter, appraising and frowning at the same time. 

Alexios wriggled out of the embrace and introduced them. "This is my friend, Peter. Peter, Bartoz. Bartoz and I spent a few weeks squatting at the same house years ago. The one where I met Estreavor, actually."

"Nice to meet you," Peter said stiffly, even though Bartoz didn't look like he shared the sentiment. 

"I assume you're going to Estreavor's funeral, too?" Bartoz said after a curt nod at Peter.

"Yes. Let's go together."

"How do you two know each other?" Bartoz asked as they began to walk together. 

"He lives in the country, but he visits every so often. We evaded the Watch together the last time. That's how we met. And now he's back for a whole two weeks!" 

This was how Alexios always explained Peter's presence, on the rare occasion when they ran into someone he knew. They did not think it a good idea for others to know about the magic in the fountain, nor the fact that Peter had come from another world entirely. 

"Ah," Bartoz said sadly. 

"You got your colors, I see," Alexios said next. 

Peter tried to guess what sport Bartoz played, but the context proved to be quite different. 

"Yes, yesterday. I was going to put out word that I was looking for you," Bartoz says as they walk. "So, I'm glad to have run into you, even though the circumstances are hardly happy."

"When do you sail?"

"In a few days. Do you see that one in the distance, with the red flag at the top?"

"Yes, the same color as this eye-searing cloak of yours," Alexios said with a laugh, but his eyes were sad and wistful. "So, you're going to be a sailor. You're going to leave."

"Yes, I'm far too old to be starting out, but they're desperate for the help, and you know for how long I've been saving money, just for this. They wanted the cash badly enough that they forged the papers so that they could take me on."

"Well, I'm happy for you," Alexios said, and while Peter knew it was not a lie, he could also see past the brave face Alexios tended to put on things, and could tell that Alexios was not happy in general. 

Peter had learned over many visits that this place had a strange system of by which all legal employment was regulated. Every single trade had a guild—stricter than anything he had learned about in Medieval History—and those guilds only accepted apprentices who were younger than ten years of age. Moreover, all apprenticeships cost a sizable sum of money. This resulted in a highly trained work force, but also a small caste of people who fell through the cracks because their parents had either failed to save the requisite amount before their children reached the age of ten, or because they had died before that time. Although they received the basic education that everyone did, these children were forever (and in Peter's mind, arbitrarily) shut out of the legitimate economy. They squatted in empty houses and tried to get by. Some of them, like Alexios, whose moral code forbade them from stealing, and who did not want to join a brothel, subsisted on small, irregular wages extracted for honest errands from people who pitied the children left behind. 

The best option for these boys and girls was to leave Noctilucent and seek their fortunes elsewhere. This was what the government seemed to hope and expect to happen, in order to preserve their organized and highly regulated economy. This was part of why the Watch was encouraged to be so aggressive with youths like Alexios. They were considered the scourge of the city. 

Peter knew that Alexios hated the half-life that he was still living. Moreover, he knew that Alexios's social circle had dwindled over the past few years, as more and more of his friends—the ones who had turned to thieving, and more shocking sources of income—left the city, one by one. He knew that Alexios was bothered by it all, and he'd never understood why someone as smart and talented and driven as his friend had found himself left behind like this, in a city that did not want him. 

Bartoz seemed to think along similar lines, for the next thing he said was, "I could arrange something for you, too, Alexios. Or even just sneak you on my ship, at least as far as Contrails, and then you could decide whether you wanted to stay there or keep on at sea."

Alexios shook his head and replied, "No, I wouldn't want you to take such a risk, not after you've worked so hard for this."

"It's really no trouble," Bartoz said, even though Peter, who knew almost nothing about anything here, had a feeling that it would be quite a lot of trouble, in fact. 

But Peter could see that Bartoz would do it, would do anything for Alexios, who was the kind of boy who inspired that kind of loyalty. Peter suddenly felt jealous of Bartoz. He wished that _he_ could make Alexios such an offer, could provide an answer to the unhappiness that he knew ate at Alexios beneath that brave face. For all that he was heir to a title and a fortune back home, he did not know how to make Alexios happy. 

"It's a very nice offer, but I'm all right here." Alexios looked quickly at Peter, likely to make sure that he was not feeling left out of the conversation; Bartoz had hardly made an effort to include him. 

Bartoz deflated. "If you say so. However, the offer remains open, and will remain so until I have to leave. Just come down to the docks and look for me." 

"Well, you'll certainly be easy to spot," Alexios joked, trying to lighten the mood and change the subject. 

Peter was distracted anyway, because just then, the narrow street opened up. A vast vista sprawled before them.

And now, for the first time in all his visits here, Peter understood why there were never any clouds in the sky. It was because they were all in the sea. It was because the clouds _were_ the sea. He thought he had to be wrong, that perhaps it was a, what-do-you-call-it, a mirage. Because it couldn't be, could it? But as they approached the coast, he grew more and more certain that this was not merely mist over the water. The truth was that there was no water at all. 

Some other acquaintances of Alexios's and Bartoz's joined them. Peter barely heard what they were saying, but a few errant words that filtered into his consciousness reminded him why they had come here in the first place. 

Peter grew more and more agitated the closer they came to the edge, but he knew that he could not embarrass Alexios, nor draw attention to his strangeness, so he tried to control himself and to keep calm. It was difficult, however, given his crippling fear of heights. 

Alexios had no idea what was wrong, but he could sense that _something_ was amiss. Whenever their companions' attention was off him, he squeezed Peter's hand. The sensation of the small callouses against Peter's soft skin grounded Peter. It physically hurt when Alexios had to let go.

The funeral ground resembled an ancient theatre, with rows of seats shaped in an arc that opened up to the thing that they called the sea, which Peter knew to be the open sky. Whoever he was, Estreavor must have been very well-loved, because the crowd gathered filled the numerous seats. 

Peter's fear of heights distracted him all through the ceremony, which, if he'd been in a better frame of mind, he would have found quite beautiful. The body had been carefully wrapped in white linen, and laid on a bed of red and white flowers at the edge of the shore—or ledge, as it were. A priest said solemn words that Peter couldn't quite make out, given how far away they were (thankfully) standing from where he stood, at the edge of the land, over the body. An older couple, whom Alexios whisperingly identified as Estreavor's parents, gave a little speech.

And then, the ultimate horror began. A few men wheeled what looked like an enormous catapult into the center of the stage-like area. They placed the embalmed body in it. With a few last words, they wound the machine, and then Estreavor's body was flying, in a high but wide arc, and then it was falling, a rapidly shrinking speck in the sky, before it was swallowed by the white of the clouds in the distance.

Everyone watching bowed their heads and sang a song whose words Peter felt too sick to hear.

And then it was over. Bartoz found Alexios again.

"Keep in mind what I said, friend," he said before taking his leave. And to Peter, "Are you all right?"

"I'll look after him," Alexios said, also giving Peter a worried look.

Bartoz didn't look all that bothered, however. With all the desperate need of hero worship, he asked, "You'll see me again before I set off, won't you?"

"Of course! We'll make a party of it." 

Alexios must have known that Peter was in no state to talk, because he hurried through his goodbyes. He led Peter away from the funeral grounds by pressing his hand at the small of his back, guiding him silently but confidently. He stopped at the first public water fountain they passed and pumped a ladle full of cool water into his hands. He wiped his fingers gently across Peter's face, down his cheeks, across his forehead, finishing by drawing a little line along the ridge of Peter's nose.

That wasn't helping at all.

Next, Alexios held Peter's hands and moved them to form a limp cup. He ladled some more water into them. "Drink."

Peter drank, and then drank again until he felt less light-headed. 

"What happened?" Alexios asked.

"You did not tell me that the sea was the sky!" Peter exploded.

"What are you talking about? The sky is above us, as usual."

"That was not the sea. Those were clouds. Where is the water?"

"In your hands. Or it would be, if you wanted more."

"No." Peter took a deep breath. "In my world, the sea is a vast expanse of water between land masses. That was not the sea. That was the sky. Tell me, is this whole country floating? Does it move?"

"Yes? Of course, it is. All land moves. That is why sailors must study the hardest of all professions. Their mathematical skills must account for ever so many variables, given that the distances and routes are constantly changing. What, do your countries not move?"

Peter felt as though he were going to throw up. "No, they do not. Do you know what is below us?" 

"Below?"

"Where they flung poor Estreavor. Where will he fall?"

"He sinks. No one knows where, or for how far. That is what religion is supposed to tell us, is it not? And each religion posits its own vision." 

Peter's fear of heights was so great that this world, which had seemed so beautiful only this morning, now seemed like a nightmare. The only thing that was still wonderful in it was Alexios. Peter held on to him like a drowning man. 

"I do not understand what has upset you, but you're really shaken, aren't you?" Alexios said, and the concern was etched all over his face. "Are you fit to walk home?"

"I… I don't know." 

"We're taking a taxi, then. Wait right here. You promise you won't move from this spot?  
Peter nodded weakly and watched as Alexios sprinted away. A few minutes later he saw a covered wagon pulled by four handsome horses headed their way. Alexios leaned out of a rolled-up flap on the side and waved at him.

"Get in!" he called, and helped Peter up and inside. There were seats for ten inside, but the only other occupants were an elderly couple.

"He'll take us all the way back to the edge of our district," Alexios whispered. "After that, the streets become too narrow for the horses."

"Isn't this rather expensive?"

"Yes, but…"

"What?"

"Don't worry about it. I've been working a bit harder than usual to ensure we can have fun while you're here."

Peter would have preferred that Alexios work to purchase himself a ticket to a better life, but he was in no state to have that kind of conversation, especially when they weren't alone. So, all he said was, "I appreciate that, but you didn't need to. I hope I never made you think that I expected some kind of special treatment. I hope I have never seemed like a snob."

"No, it was nothing you did. I did it because I… I wanted to."

"I have fun doing anything, as long as it's with you. You know that."

They spent the rest of the ride back to the townhouse in relative quiet, both lost in their own thoughts. After disembarking, Alexios bought a takeaway feast from a tavern and refused to let Peter carry any of it during the walk back to their house. It was the hottest part of the day when they let themselves in. Instead of going to their garret room, Alexios sat Peter on one of the lounge chairs in the main sitting room and went to find him more water. 

"I still don't understand what happened," Alexios said when he returned. 

Peter tried to explain, but the core of it was too different. He gave up after a couple of tries, and tried to calm down so that Alexios would stop asking him. He wanted to stop thinking about it at all. Instead, he turned to the other topic that had been bothering him. 

"Why haven't you left Noctilucent?" he asked, directly this time.

"Why don't you have more water?"

"I don't want more water. I want an answer."

"I haven't left because this is my home. I love it here."

"No, you don't. I see it in your eyes, you know. You are so jealous of Bartoz that you could eat your hat. Or, you would, if people here wore hats. You were just as jealous of Leicestra a couple of months ago when she told you she was leaving. And you were jealous of Apolonian a month before that. As far as I could see, they were right to leave. The city doesn't want you—any of you."

"What do you know about it?" Alexios snapped back. "You aren't from here. You don't understand." 

"I understand what it feels like to be trapped, in a role that doesn't fit you, and in a life that feels too small. You are meant for more than this." Peter gestured around him. "Squatting in strangers' mansions, always worrying if the occupants will return in the middle of the night. What kind of life is that?"

"We can't all be little lords like you."

"This has nothing to do with me."

"Of course it does!" Alexios said miserably, looking at Peter as though he were an idiot. "The magic only works to send you to the Vratesi fountain. If I left, how would I ever see you again? Don't you see that you are why I stay?"

Peter goggled. He'd had no idea. "But I am barely here. And you know that our time is limited. Once I graduate, I won't be able to sneak into these woods nearly as often as I can now. I won't let you stay here for me." 

Alexios slumped. "I was hoping… I don't know. If I showed you a beautiful enough time on this trip, perhaps… Perhaps once you leave your school, you can just keep turning the device over and over again. Set it for the maximum amount of time, and then reset it again as soon as you return. You don't want to live the life that has been planned out for you. So, why not live your life here instead? That's what I had been thinking, but I can see that it never even once occurred to you." 

Peter was angry, and frustrated, but neither angry nor frustrated enough to miss the deep sadness and disappointed hope in Alexios's voice. He looked more closely at his friend, at the way his long fingers fidgeted, and his foot shook. He was _nervous_ Peter now saw. Nervous the way the first years who had not yet learned to control their tempers and emotions got sometimes. Alexios was nervous that he had said too much.

"You were truly ready to stay here just for me? In the hopes that we could be together always?"

"Yes," Alexios said miserably. 

"But why?"

For a second, Alexios looked at Peter as though he'd grown a third eye. But then he shook his head. "It doesn't matter. I know now that you will never want what I want. You think it beneath you."

"I hope I have never been snobbish towards you. I don't think I have been. I should never have told you about my family, about the title or any—"

"No, I mean, you think what I want from you is dirty. Filthy, you called it." 

It took a second for the words to sink in. When they did, Peter immediately clapped his hand over his mouth. 

"You can't tell me you're surprised," Alexios said at this reaction.

Peter didn't answer, because the question had to be rhetorical. Shock must have been etched in every line of his body. 

He had never considered himself a particularly brave boy. He had never stood up to his grandfather, not directly. He had never managed to screw up enough courage to tell Langdon how he'd felt. It was his very conformity that had made him such an effective prefect. 

But today, he felt brave. Or, rather, he had a reason to feel brave. 

No longer shaking from the memory of the ledge off the end of the world, he stood and crossed the room to the sofa on which Alexios sat. He sat down next to him and pressed his lips to that dear face. 

Alexios didn't respond for a second, but once his brain caught up to what was going on, he wrapped his arms around Peter and kissed back with all he had.

It turned out that the only thing better than one of Alexios's long, tender hugs, was one of Alexios's long, tender hugs while kissing. 

It wasn't long before they fell off the edge of the sofa and onto the floor. Alexios stretched out over Peter, taking charge with a delicious confidence. It wasn't long after _that_ when Peter felt Alexios's hardness pressing against his thigh. He moved his hips so that Alexios could feel his in kind. 

The gasp of arousal that this movement elicited might have been the best sound Peter had ever heard. 

"I don't think either of us are filthy," Peter confirmed between kisses. 

"I'm glad to hear it."

* * *

The next few days passed like a dream. 

Peter and Alexios settled into a routine that in its indolent leisure would have infuriated Peter's headmaster. The rose late, and shared a long, long bath in the master suite of the townhouse. Then they explored interesting sights of the city—a new district every day (although, at Peter's request, they stayed away from the seaside districts). They visited some of the kinds of cafes that they had frequented on Peter's previous visits, but always returned home early enough that there was still daylight when they lovingly undressed each other.

Peter learned more about bodies than he had thought possible, his own and Alexios's both. He learned what would make Alexios gasp and cry out, and what would make both of them crest to new highs. 

Anyone who called this 'filth' had simply never tried it, he decided, or else they had never cared for another person the way Peter and Alexios cared about one another. This was more than infatuation, he knew. 

As the days passed, questions and worries about the future continued to nag at him, but he had never seen Alexios so happy.

 _Tomorrow_ , he kept telling himself, ignoring the warning bells in his mind. 

And Alexios was _very_ distracting.

* * *

They were so wrapped up in one another that they grew sloppy. There was no other explanation for it, because they were both such careful people, normally.

But Alexios had taken to staring too long and too lovingfully at Peter's face when they walked around the city, and Peter had taken to listening too fondly to Alexios's voice as they talked. And that was how they failed to either see or hear the Watch approach them one afternoon. 

The next thing Peter knew, one of them was yelling, "There he is! Get 'im!"

By then, it was too late. Alexios had missed his window to outrun them, and there was no way for him to overpower five armored guards. Two of the guards wrested his arms behind him while a third struck him in the face, knocking the wind out of him.

Peter leaped forward, preparing to fight, even though he did not know how he could win. 

"Who's this?" asked the biggest and meanest-looking of the guards. He pointed at Peter.

"A fellow to whom I owe money," Alexios said quickly, loudly, and yet not quickly or loudly enough to raise suspicion. He bowed his head as he struggled, and laughed with just the right amount of feigned ruefulness, even as he leveled a desperately pleading glance through his wide, lash-fanned eyes. "Rather a lot of money. Honestly, my good men, you almost deliver me from a worse fate, for his ideas of how to repay interest are… Let us say that I would prefer a visit with you."

"Is that true?" another guard asked.

"Ye-es," Peter replied slowly, because that one look had told him how much it meant to Alexios to keep Peter out of it. 

More importantly, all Peter cared about was getting Alexios out of this, as unscathed as possible. Peter knew nothing of Noctilucent's prisons, nor of its system of justice. However, if the prisons were anything like the ones he had read about in 'The Count of Monte Cristo' or 'The Man in the Iron Mask', Peter would have an easier time getting Alexios out if he himself remained free.

So, he drew himself up to his full height and channeled his grandfather in the moments when he was forced to speak to derelict tenants. He took care to pronounce his 'O's and 'R's the way people did here when he said, "You have terrible timing, gentlemen. I had only just caught the wily scamp. He cheated me out of a significant sum months ago. I was about to extract remuneration. I understand his popularity, but you not arrest him tomorrow instead?"

"No, sir. We've been chasing this one for a while. If we let him off now, who's to say we'll ever catch him again. But if you stop by the registrar at Fortezza Oblisto, you can have them record the amount that he owes you. It will be added to his case, as yet another strike against him. Depending on the sentence he is given at the end of his trial, you might find it repaid someday."

Well, that spared Peter having to ask the name of prison they were taking Alexios to, as well as potential embarrassment if there had turned out to be only one in the city.

"I will do so. Thank you." Peter allowed himself one last look at Alexios's dear, frightened face. He felt his heart stretch to breaking as the guards dragged Alexios away from him. He discreetly followed in order to learn where in the city the prison lay, as well as to, at least temporarily, reduce the stretch.

The guards chained Alexios into a cart. Two sat in the back with him, practically sitting on his head, as though Alexios had any hope of breaking the iron. At first, Peter despaired of keeping pace with the horse-drawn cart, but thankfully, the traffic in this part of town moved like molasses. It took over an hour before the cart slowed in front of a terrifying stone fortress on the 'sea'. Peter felt his knees go weak as he approached, but he crouched behind a fence and watched where they led Alexios, behind a gate and out of sight.

Peter stood and looked around him, at the city behind him and at the horrifying sight of the clouds cresting in damp billows at the place where the ground abruptly stopped.

Peter had never felt alone here before, not with Alexios's hand there to hold, from the very first moment. But now, the full scope of the adventure he had undertaken, and had been undertaking for months, revealed itself. He was in a world that was not his, a world he barely understood. A world that was not, in fact, merely a dream, or a place for play. This was a real city, as dark and dangerous as it was interesting.

The truth that should have impressed itself during his first trip now weighed up him: if something happened to him here, no one would ever know what had become of him.

However, Peter was not a Bassington-Bassington for nothing, nor—and this was of no lesser importance—Head Boy of Adams's house for nothing. As he stood in that squalid ditch outside an impregnable fortress situated at the edge of an impossible city in the sky, he felt the spirit of the Bassington-Bassingtons and of Wrykyn itself stirring in his blood.

He clenched his fists, and, with only a slight slip of his left heel in the thickest, slickest divot of mud, he took off at a run for the port. Years of the early morning cricket drills that Alexios had disparaged as 'torture in the cold, dawn drizzle' had resulted in Peter having developed impressive stamina. He knew it would be a long run, but he refused to tire, not even for a cramp. He kept his head turned away from the horrifying nearness of the clouds as he followed the coastal road around the edge of the landmass. The increased density around the port forced him to slow down, but that was all right, since he now needed to use his eyes more than his legs. He looked around for a burst of red in the swarm of beiges and browns and blacks.

"Bartoz!" Peter cried when he finally spied the youth walking up the gangplank of what had to be his ship. She was a fine vessel, with tall masts and a beautifully carved star on her bow. Were she setting her sail to cross any body other than the sky, Peter might have wanted to make this his next adventure. As it was, he shivered in horror. But Peter's feelings on the sea-sky didn't matter. All that mattered was that Alexios longed for it, and that if he could get away, he might enjoy a safe and productive future.

Bartoz regarded Peter with even an even higher-raised eyebrow than the other day.

"Peter, right? That was your name?" he asked after signaling to his companions that he would catch up with them. "What has happened? You have something terrible in your face. Is Alexios all right?"

"No. He is anything but all right. The Watch finally caught up with him. He has been arrested. They took him to the Fortezza Oblisto."

All the friendly good humor drained out of Bartoz's face. Peter could see plainly how Bartoz loved Alexios, and had apparently long loved him. He hated himself for having come along, like some upstart new transfer immediately granted a place on the school cricket team. He hated himself for not being worthy enough to have kept Alexios from harm.

"What can we do?" Bartoz asked.

A true athlete had to be a thinker on his feet. And as a true athlete, Peter had done a lot of thinking during the run over here.

"I have a plan, if you're able to help. Much of it will rest of on you, as my knowledge of this city is limited."

"Anything."

"Does the offer you made Alexios still stand? Is it still possible?"

"Yes, of course! Only, I thought he did not want to come. It seemed that he preferred to stay with…" He didn't need to say the word 'you' for them to both hear it.

"Well, if you can still arrange it, I would appreciate it. Whether he joins your ship as a paying passenger or as a sailor apprentice, it matters little to me, as long as you sail this week."

"I can arrange for either, though the former will cost us. But how will we get him out of prison?"

"Leave that to me. I will use the most universally reliable tool there is."

"Which is what?"

"A generous allowance."

Bartoz scratched his head. "I don't follow."

"Cold, hard cash. Tell me, Bartoz, where can I find a collector willing to part with his money in exchange for interesting artifacts?"

* * *

Peter hadn't had a chance to show Alexios all the gifts he had brought from England, and unfortunately, now he never would. But they would serve an even greater purpose. 

Peter might have risen to this challenge, but no recently discovered reserves of gumption could magically teach him to haggle. He described his treasures with the majestic authority of a learned expert and a nobleman's son, but he let Bartoz do the talking when it came to the negotiations. They only needed to visit two merchants in order to sell everything that Peter had arrived with. They even, somehow, got an exorbitant price for the tin of McVitie's & Price's digestive biscuits (though Peter had a feeling the wheedling merchant was more interested in the bright red metal container than in the delicious treats inside).

They had also made inquiries with the right parties, and discovered that the City Prosecutor was currently on holiday ("It's going around," Peter had muttered, to Bartoz's confusion) and wouldn't be back for at least two more weeks. Nothing would happen until the Prosecutor's return, Bartoz explained. Alexios would rot in the prison, uninterrupted for that whole time. 

That suited Peter's plan just fine, even though Bartoz couldn't quite see how solitary imprisonment in a cell that no one would enter or leave could possibly be a good thing. 

After they had conducted the last of their meetings, Peter took his leave of Bartoz at the southern edge of Vratesi fountain, beside the rather morbid sculpture of an injured and dying elder whose nose trickled water in place of blood. The sun was beginning to throw off the riotous hues of its impending descent, and Peter didn't trust his navigational skills in the dark. Not without Alexios to laughingly place his hands on Peter's hips and turn him back in the right direction, the way he always did when Peter went off half-cocked around a corner instead of going straight.

"You'll find the doctor tonight?" Peter said as he pressed a bag full of money into Bartoz's hand. "She is the most vital ingredient of the plan."

"Yes, of course. I know her favorite restaurant. She will help for a sum as princely as this. In fact, at this sum, she will likely be surprised to learn that our plan is not actually _for_ a prince."

"Alexios is worth more than most princes. I should know. I've met a few."

"You can stay on the ship, if you need to." Bartoz's unfailing generosity was all the more noble for how it contrasted with the jealous, wistful glances he had been giving Peter all afternoon.

"Thank you for the offer, but I should begin tidying the… I mean, Alexios's lodging. I want to send him off with a bag. I'll bring it round tomorrow morning."

He didn't need to voice the truth that Bartoz didn't actually want to face: that Peter had been living with Alexios. Bartoz had figured it out on the way to the collectors' offices, when he'd waited in the street downstairs while Peter packed up the things he'd wanted to sell. 

"Are you sure you want to do this? Even for Alexios," Bartoz said.

"I promise you, I'll be fine."

"I don't see how, but all right. I'll see you tomorrow," Bartoz said. "I hope your plan works. I think it will. It is very clever. _You_ are clever. Cleverer than I could ever hope to be. I can see why…"

"There are better things than being clever, and that's what you've got," Peter said, and hoped it made sense outside of his head.

Bartoz looked bashfully at his feet. "He's lucky to have you."

"He won't have me for much longer, regardless of what happens. If all goes well, he'll have _you_."

They waved goodbye and parted ways.

If all went according to plan (and possibly also if it all didn't), this would be Peter's last evening in Noctilucent. He stopped to purchase a hot stuffed bun at half-price from a baker looking to offload the last of his goods for the day, and then a flask of sweet water from a cart. He nibbled and drank as he walked slowly all the way back to the mansion, savoring all the sights and smells weird screeches from the hideous, batlike birds that perched on ledges.

It was a magical city—as wild and impossible and frustrating as anywhere Gulliver had traveled—but without Alexios to share it with, Peter felt only melancholy. He noticed brand-new details that he'd never get to learn more about—an interesting architectural flourish at the top of most window frames, a shop selling ingenious-looking wind-up toys, yet another bizarre sculpture hidden in the fingers of the fountain. But at the same time, he felt distant from his own adventure, almost but not quite bored by it all, like a good song that has recently been played too many times.

Once inside the mansion, he gathered Alexios's sparse belongings—his few additional clothes, the couple of books Peter had brought in the pockets of his jacket on previous trips, his hair ties. Now that Peter had sold almost everything he'd come with, all of Alexios's worldly possessions fit neatly into the rucksack.

He scrounged around the bedrooms downstairs for a pair of scissors, and cut off a thick lock of his hair. He'd been in need of a haircut, so he was able to get a little bit of the dark red curl. He tied the hair up in a bit of string that he found in the same sewing kit, and then took it upstairs to where he'd laid out a piece of paper from one of his school notebooks, along with a pen.

He wrote three versions of a letter to Alexios, tearing each attempt up as being both too soppy and not soppy enough. The last version survived not because of its superiority over the others, but because the sunlight had finally dimmed into nothingness. With everything packed as neatly as possible, he crawled into the cold bed, alone for the first and last time.

* * *

The next morning, Peter hopped from foot to foot as he waited outside a busy café a few blocks away from the prison. Bartoz had said he'd give the doctor Peter's description (and Peter did wonder what such a description consisted of). He inspected every man who passed by, but they all seemed to be firmly on their way, not searching for strangers at all. Just as he was about to give up hope, he felt a tap on his shoulder, from behind. He spun around to find a middle-aged woman of diminutive stature dressed in long grey robes and carrying two heavy-looking bags.

"Are you the young man with the friend in need?" She had the same sandy brown hair as many people in Noctilucent, but her eyes gleamed green like freshly polished emeralds. Her mouth turned down in a frown, but whether that was her natural expression or merely a situational response to the project at hand, Peter could not tell.

"You're the doctor who calls at the prison?" Peter asked.

"Yes. Why? Were you expecting someone else? Was I not the only one to receive this commission?"

"No, no, there's only you," Peter said. "Thank you for agreeing." 

She shook her head. "It is no trouble to me, and your associate has promised me an impressive amount. Though I must say, it sounds insane. You must love this friend of yours very much."

"I…" Peter blushed, and he could see her taking in this apparently rare physical response with academic inquisitiveness. "I suppose I do. My name is Peter, by the way."

"Valeria," she replied. She handed him one of the bags, and motioned to him to open it. He pulled out a bundle of dark grey cloth and unfurled it to reveal a long cloak with a deep hood, like those worn by Druids in the popular imagination. "Put that on."

"Thanks." Peter put it on and then strapped the false brown beard he'd purchased on the way. He looked ridiculous, but hopefully no one would be looking closely enough beyond all the covering. He dropped his own small bundle of possessions inside the bag. "Are we ready?"

"If you are." Valeria started walking at a crisp pace. "Where are you from? I cannot place your accent. Nor your…" She gestured at what Peter assumed was his general aspect.

"I don't know," he replied, semi-honestly. He had no idea of the relative locations of England in relation to this place.

As expected, she took his statement to mean something else entirely. She nodded sadly. "Ah, an orphan then?"

"Yes," he said, again honestly. He tried to look much more tragic than his otherwise healthy appearance suggested.

"You poor dear. No wonder you think so little of you own well-being." She sighed. "Let me explain how the schedule of my visits to the prison usually go."

She spent the rest of the walk detailing what to expect, and describing the various wings and patients.

By the time they reached the gate, they had formed a makeshift plan. "Thank you," he said. "I think this will work."

"No, thank _you_. The payment you and your friend have promised will allow me to achieve my dream of going to Mantis. There is a ship leaving in a week that I can book passage on."

"Does everyone want to leave Noctilucent?"

"No, most who are from here love it. But every so often, there are people like me who long for new adventures." 

"I can understand that." Peter took one last look behind him—the glory of the city and its various towers—and followed Valeria inside the dark fortress, pulling his hood far down over his head so that it covered his face entirely.

"Who's this?" asked the guard just inside the entrance. He had a kinder face than the ones who had taken Alexios. He seemed like a lazy old man looking to pass the last few years before his retirement, and whose daily highlights included chats with the few, non-criminal regulars who passed through his gate every day.

"My new apprentice," Valeria replied. "He's here today to assist me with some of the easier cases. Perhaps some of the new prisoners?"

"We only have two since you were last here. Both in the east wing. But look at you, Valeria. Moving up in the world. Taking apprentices and everything."

"It's about time, don't you think?"

"Past time."

They smiled at one another, and he waved her through.

There wasn't much for Peter to do as he followed Valeria around all north, south, and west wing. He stood quietly and handed her tools when asked, and tried to look academically interested instead of nervous. Not that anyone could see his face anyway. 

They mixed up their routine when they reached the east wing. 

Luckily, the guards in the prison were not the patrollers who had made the arrest. 

"Ronaldo said there were two new prisoners since the last time," Valeria said.

"Yes, an old fellow in the second cell on the left, and a youth in the last cell on the right. The latter is one my brethren have been wanting to catch for some time. Finally got him yesterday."

"What has he done?" Valeria asked.

The man shrugged. "Couldn't tell you. They listed a mess of minor charges yesterday when they brought him in, but if I had to guess, foremost among them would be having made a fool of them for years."

Valeria's shoulders relaxed farther upon hearing this than Peter had thought possible; it transformed her posture entirely. He supposed it was always a relief to learn that one was not assisting a dangerous criminal, one who might commit heinous acts once released.

Even the guard noticed her full-body exhalation. "Everything all right?"

"Right as sunshine. Just a chill. You know how it is."

"I hope you aren't catching anything from the prisoners. I worry about you."

"You are kind, but don't." She nodded at Peter. "I'll take the old fellow. You check on the youth."

He mumbled, "Yes, ma'am," and went off.

"Knock loudly and call for me when you've finished," the guard said. He unlocked the door and let Peter in, locking it behind him.

Alexios was sitting on the floor in a corner of the cell, in the one spot that got some sunshine through the small grated opening in the thick stone wall. He'd tucked his knees under his chin and wrapped his arms around his legs. He didn't get up when Peter walked in. He didn't move at all except to raise his head and assess the newcomer with a wary look. The light caught his cheek just enough to show off a dark bruise around his eyes that hadn't been there the day before.

The staring contest continued silently until Peter heard Ronaldo's steps retreat far out of earshot. Then he stepped forward and pulled down his hood, putting a finger to his lips at the same time.

Alexios immediately scrambled to his feet and into Peter's arms.

"Peter!" he whispered into the scratchy cloth of the hood. "Gods, I've been worried. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

"What on earth do you have to be sorry about?"

"For leaving you alone and helpless."

"Tosh," Peter said, a little incensed, but Alexios kept going.

"I'd always promised myself, from that very first time, that I'd look after you whenever you were here. I've ruined your holiday. I got caught, like an idiot, at the very worst time. I've taken time away from us, and it isn't as though we ever have very much together. And just when we had…"

"Stop it. Really."

"How have you been? How are you managing? What are you doing here? Have they caught you, too? There's nothing they can charge you—"

"Shhhh." Peter reluctantly eased Alexios's octopus grip off him and stepped back just far enough to get a good look at him. The bruises were even worse up close. "They hurt you!"

"They've been wanting to rough me up for a while. But it's nothing. Not as bad as I've been beating myself up about having left you like that."

Peter remembered that he was still holding a doctor's bag, filled with supplies that might be able to help. "Let me see if there's something I can use. You might have to help me identify it, though."

He bent down to dig inside while Alexios hovered over him.

"What I don't understand is what you're doing here," Alexios said as Peter dug through the bag, shoving the pouch of cash to one side in order to get at the actual medical supplies.

"Getting you out."

"How?"

Peter began taking off the cloak. "Tis a far, far better thing…"

Alexios stiffened, because 'A Tale of Two Cities' was one of the books Peter had smuggled in his pockets on a previous visit. "You can't intend—"

"I do. You're going to walk out of here with Valeria. She's the doctor. She's quite nice. No one saw my face when I walked in. If you keep quiet, no one will notice you on the way out. All you have to do is tell them that the chap in here is very ill, very contagious, and that for the next couple of weeks, it would be best to simply shove food in through the hole. No one will know there's been a switch."

"They certainly will as soon as they take me out for the trial. And then what?"

"The prosecutor is away. My time will be up long before he returns. When they come to take you—me—to trial, this cell will be empty. It's perfect."

"But—"

"Meanwhile, you'll be far away, away from this place entirely. Bartoz has arranged it all. You're head down to the port right now. Your passage has been bought and paid for."

"Where did you get the money?"

"I sold my things. The things I brought that we never had a chance to look at."

Alexios crossed his arms and jutted out his chiseled chin. "You think you're so clever. You and Bartoz think you've got it all sorted out, but I won't. I won't go and leave you here. You can't make me."

"You will. You will because you know I'm right. Nothing will happen to me here. And you'll go because… I'm not coming back."

"Peter."

"I know that you refused Bartoz's original offer—and who knows how many offers that I haven't been privy to in the past few months—because of me. Because you wanted to stay here, in Noctilucent, to see me. And it's madness. It's madness for you to stay here just for me. So, I won't come again. This is the last time."

"No," Alexios pleaded, probably because he could tell that Peter was not bluffing. "You wouldn't."

"I swear it. I'll smash the passage to bits if I have to. And then you'll have no reason to keep yourself in danger, and keep yourself from building a real life. You can leave, just as you always wanted before I came along and mucked everything up for you."

"You haven't mucked up anything. You've made it all better."

Peter knew what he meant. He hugged him tightly, wanting desperately to kiss him, but even more than that, to simply feel his realness. To memorize the feel of him, the tangible, palpable physicality of him. To create an indelible sense memory impervious to the confusion and doubt created by time and rationality. He wanted to remember forever, without doubt, this had all happened, that Alexios had been real, that they'd had this, all of it. The late nights and the laughter. The kissing and everything else, too.

"You've made it better, too."

"I've never seen you like this before," Alexios said. "It's as though you're lit from within. Determined. You really mean to do this, don't you?"

Peter nodded bravely, but he could feel his breath hitching, as it used to back when he'd been little and trying his hardest not to cry. Holding strong, he repeated, as much for himself as for Alexios, "I won't come back, I won't. Don't even think about staying."

"I wouldn't. Not when it means so much to you. I believe you, that you won't. That you want this for me. I wish I could do something half so grand for you, to show you how much I—"

"Don't you see? You already have done so much for me. You don't need to prove anything to me. I already know."

Alexios's arms found themselves around Peter again, pulling him in for a kiss fiercer than Peter had thought possible. It was as though they were competing to show how much feeling they could pour into it. 

"You should go," Peter said when they finally came up for air. "The doctor knows what to do. She'll make sure you walk out, just as I walked in. And don't forget. Tell them… tell the guard that I have something terribly infectious and that it's best that everyone stays far away from me until the trial. And then pay her with the money in the bag once you're outside."

He shrugged out of the cloak and passed it to Alexios, who put it on with heavy hands, along with the false beard. While he tied the belt and adjusted the hood, Peter dove once more into the medical bag. He took out the books he'd saved for his interment. Four long, dense French novels that he could sit on if anyone came in to bring or remove plates.

"I'll never forget you," Alexios said with one more kiss. He worried Peter's lower lip lightly between his teeth, as though hoping to drag Peter out with him, to keep him. "No one's ever done anything like this for me. No one's ever wanted to."

"I think you just didn't see it. Bartoz practically frothed at the chance. Something tells me he isn't the only one."

"You aren't jealous. You can't be."

"Of course I am. Because he, and others like him, will get to keep you. I wish the bloody light were better in here so I could see you better."

"It doesn't matter. I don't want you to remember me like this. Though I'll remember _you_ like this. My fierce little slave boy."

Peter laughed at this, a sad, choked thing that he snuffed out with a last kiss.

"Off you go," he said when they reluctantly separated for air.

Alexios picked up the medical bag, pulled the hood to completely shadow his face, and turned to go.

"Goodbye, Peter."

"Goodbye. It's been swell. Really."

Alexios knocked loudly and called out for the guard, who lumbered back to let him out. Both boys held their breaths for a few seconds, for fear that he would notice the ruse, but he must have had other things on his mind, and no reason to distrust Valeria. He failed to notice the slight height difference between the two boys. Peter could hear Alexios telling him how sick the prisoner was, though his voice faded out of earshot before he had finished.

Peter cast his eyes about the cell, which was larger than he'd expected. And the little sunny patch was certainly big enough to sit in. He'd have to change positions throughout the day, as the angle shifted, but it could have been worse.

He settled in, legs crossed on the floor, and used his little knife to cut the first page of Les Misérables.

* * *

Blake huffed into the room with his usual dramatic flair. He took one look at Peter, sitting at his desk, and stopped in the doorway. 

"I thought Deauville was supposed to be sunny and hot as blazes. But you don’t look as though you’ve been on holiday at sea at all. I’ve never seen you so pale. It’s as though you hadn’t been outside in a week." 

"It rained the whole time," Peter said quietly. He’d been staring out of the window, sort of numbly heartbroken, for over an hour. 

"Are you all right?" Blake asked, more gently this time. "Has something happened?"

 _Not here_ , Peter thought. Aloud, all he said was, "Nothing at all. But you’ll probably be glad to know that I won’t be sneaking out at night anymore. You’ll no longer need to worry about having to cover for me if I ever get caught."

"That’s a relief. Not that I even quite knew you were gone." He paused. "Wait, was it more than just the two times?"

Peter meant to laugh, but it came out brittle. "It was just the two times," he lied. 

"Are you ever going to tell me what you were sneaking out _for_?" 

"No."

There was something quite final about the way Peter said it. So final that Blake did not press. He shrugged, not knowing what to do with this mood of Peter’s. 

"Has Havers returned? I could do with a spot of tea."

Peter finally roused himself. "So could I. I’ll call for him."

* * *

**Five Years Later**

Peter had just finished a meeting with his dissertation advisor. He was still mulling over the professor's recent proposal that Peter join the Classical archaeologists for a trip to Greece, as a knowledge-sharing opportunity. Peter might find inspiration from their study of Greece, just as they might gain a spark from Peter's study of Early Britain. 

The idea had come up a couple of weeks before, but Peter still wasn't sure. A friend with whom he'd discussed the scheme whispered teasingly about all the beautiful Cypriot boys Peter might meet on such a trip. Peter had hardly spent his university years living like the Druid monks he studied, but sex was hardly going to sway an important decision like this. In fact, he'd become less and less interested in the meaningless liaisons he'd chased as soon as he'd escaped the repressive structure of boarding school. None of them had even begun to fill the hole in his heart. 

He hadn't smashed the passage, in the end. He'd decided to leave it there for some potential future student to stumble across, and hopefully have his own adventures. But he had kept his word and not gone back, no matter how much some of his studied in subsequent years made him want to, in order to run through a new, and infinitely more informed, list of questions to the witch who had told him and Alexios, for a price, that the type magic that had created such a passage had died out thousands of years before, in that world, too. 

He got his key out to unlock the door to his study, but found it already open. He paused in the doorway. Someone was sitting in his spare chair. 

"Hello?"

The figure swiveled around to face him. 

"Hullo, Peter."

Peter practically ran through the door, slamming it shut behind him with his foot. He hovered over the chair, not sure what to do, or if he was dreaming.

Alexios had cut his beautiful hair to something approximating English (or at least fashionable French) styles. In the years since they'd last met, he'd gained a fetching scar that parted his left eyebrow and made him look appealingly like a pirate. Hard work had increased his musculature, and Peter wanted nothing more than to squeeze the arms and thighs that bulged from a linen outfit that he vaguely remembered having once owned. He must have accidently left it in the luggage when he'd packed up Alexios's things on that last, awful night. 

But Alexios had not lost even one iota of that inner flame that made him look like a glowing, burnished god. If anything, the flame had increased, along with his deep tan. 

Peter was still hovering in confusion when Alexios stood up and wrapped him up in one of the hugs that Peter had missed so much. 

"You haven't changed a bit," he whispered into Peter's hair. 

"You have," Peter whispered back. "But I think it suits you."

They stood like that for another minute, and Peter didn't have it in him to worry if it was too long, because he was so damn happy. 

Eventually, Alexios stepped back and gripped Peter by the wrists, like he used to do sometimes. "Were you all right? In prison, I mean."

"Oh, that?" Peter had barely ever thought about that week. He'd immersed himself in his novels and tried to remind himself of Valeria's aura of kind competence and of Bartoz's devotedness whenever he'd started to worry. Before he'd known it, he'd been pulled back into the chapel. "It was fine. Just as I thought it would be. I can't believe you're still worried about that."

"Of course I've worried. I've never stopped. Because what if they hadn't listened? What if the guards who hated me so much came and beat you before the time was up? What if the Prosecutor had come back early? I never knew, and it ate at me." 

"What… _How?_ "

"I went to sea, just like you wanted me to. I became a merchant sailor. And I was very good at it." 

"I knew you would be." Peter had imagined it many times, even though he did not understand how the boats over there remained aloft. But if they worked anything like the boats he had seen he had imagined Alexios hoisting the mast, rowing with those strong arms of his, climbing, pulling, laughing… Gorgeous and smiling and fulfilled, with a future as bright as his eyes. 

"What I discovered once I had been traveling for a while is that there are more witches in other cities and countries than the few frauds left in Noctilucent. And for the right price—a price much higher than we realized back then that we needed to pay—you can learn quite a lot."

"Such as?" Peter asked, getting an inkling that Alexios had been working just as dedicatedly as he had to understand the forces that had brought them together. However, unlike Peter, who had been trying and failing to resign himself to loneliness, Alexios had been working not just to understand, but to get back to him. 

"Such as the fact that such magic is rare, but not entirely snuffed out. It is also almost impossible to control. There are more worlds than just our two, I learned. And even if you find a witch skilled enough to create a new portal, there would have been no way to pinpoint this world specifically if I had not had a beacon."

"What do you mean?"

"Something from the person I wanted to locate." Alexios pulled a little packet of cloth out of his pocket and unrolled it enough to display a lock of dark red hair. 

"Where did you come out?"

Alexios scrunched his face in an expression that Peter remembered having found adorable. "I think they called it Anglesey? It was awful. I was drowning in the sea immediately. I've been drowning almost nonstop ever since."

"Drowning? What do you mean? Anglesey isn't on the sea."

"This entire world is submerged in the sea! As soon as I got here, I finally understood what you had been talking about. Water falling on me from above every time I venture out of doors. It's awful!"

Peter laughed, feeling a little hysterical. "Well, you _did_ come out in Ireland. It isn't like that everywhere, or always. How did you find me?"

"You told me your other name once. So, I asked for Peter Bassington, heir to one of the noble families in the land. I hadn't realized that when you'd said 'Bassington' twice, that you weren't merely tripping repetitively over the word."

Peter felt as though he hadn't laughed this much in years. He was practically hiccupping on it. "Oh dear. They must have thought you mad!"

"If they did, I don't care, because it worked. And here I am. And here you are."

"Yes. Here we are." 

They stared at one another, and the tension that had almost never existed between them grew. Peter didn't know what to do with his hands. Or his feet. Or his face. He wanted to kiss Alexios, but he didn't dare assume…

"How long do you have before you get pulled back?" he asked before his mind raced too far ahead. 

"As long as I want. I could even bring you back with me. Whatever you want." He went back for another hug and whispered, "It's been a long time, so much longer than the time we ever knew one another, so I'll understand if you no longer… Now that I know you're all right, I will understand if you don't…"

"Will you please stop talking?" Peter interrupted, and shushed him even more decidedly with a kiss. 

Peter had become a better kisser in the past few years. So much so that Alexios seemed to notice and guess why. He growled into Peter's mouth and shoved him aggressively against the door. 

"I see that I am going to have to reclaim you," he said, worrying Peter's lower lip. 

"I look forward to it. Say, how do you feel about accompanying me on a voyage? Across what _I_ consider the sea."

"Anywhere."

"My grandfather will be furious," Peter said, because it was true. Grandfather had intended for Oxford to be a three-year social engagement, a place to forge contacts for future use, not actually for learning. He had not been pleased when Peter had announced that he was extending his studies and taking a fellowship.

"Do you care?" Alexios asked.

"Not a bit."


End file.
